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Bobby Fischer: The Pawn that Did Not Want to Promote – an Allegory

Bobby Fischer: The Pawn that Did Not Want to Promote – an Allegory

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Introduction

A pawn that does not want to promote? ---Absurd! All his life, a pawn labors to promote to a queen, so why, standing on the seventh rank, would the pawn decide he does not want to promote?

On the surface, this seems ridiculous, but maybe there are good, logical reasons why a pawn may get promotion shivers—especially if the pawn happens to be a highly analytical pawn with uncanny foresight, as was the case for Bobby. Let's explore this idea further.

Please join me on the journey.

 

Pawn Life

Phase One:

From the first move, the pawn faces a dilemma: Full speed ahead or one step at a time?

Full speed ahead! But wait—there may be an enemy pawn waiting to torpedo you—better check.

Yes, there is a pawn waiting to enpassant you. You can't move at all until it is removed.

Finally. the bishop took it.

 Now, two squares, e4! Right into the middle of things. But wait, is it safe?

It's in the middle of the board, and there's no one to protect you. Naturally, c3 or d3 would help, but the c3 square is often occupied by the knight, cutting off the support that c3 would give.

D2 Then, it could support you. But the d2 pawn is ambitious. He prefers to advance two squares rather than support you.

What? The d2 just stepped forward two squares, leaving you behind. No, that does not work, e4! Now, I am in the center of the board. I get a great view, but it is scary with all the pieces rushing around me.

The d-pawn disappears, leaving me alone. I am stuck; e5 was just played.

I'm waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting in the center of the board—the most dangerous place to be—alone and unsupported.

An attack, c7 just moved two squares attacking me. I must take it, but it will change my path, my projected path, forever.

There is no choice.

Phase Two:

Hurray! I am a passed pawn.

What is happening?

Why am I suddenly the center of attention? All the enemy pieces are rushing over to attack me, to destroy me, to keep me from being promoted.

Ah, my friends are coming to support me. I am not sure they will arrive in time, though. The enemy is closing in.

Ah, I see the King rushing over. Finally, I caught his attention. I could have used his support much earlier.

He really waited until the last minute to get moving—and he moves slowly, handicapped by all the bureaucracy.

 I'll have to fight for my life; it will take all I have to survive.

Oof, that was a close call. Thankfully, the bishop came in to support me; he is a good friend and always willing to help me out. Unfortunately, he is often distracted by his clerical duties, but he saved my life this time.

But I made progress, only two more squares.

I wish the enemy piece would mind their own business and leave me alone. But no, they seem to be out to get me. I can't really blame them; a passed pawn is a dangerous thing, as Nimzowitsch pointed out.

One more square, and I will be there.

 Yeah, promotion is in sight; my life's dream is fulfilled. But wait, what then?

Phase Three:

What then? My pawn life ended forever; there is no turning back.

I must give up my identity, the only identity I have known, to become a queen—a powerful queen gliding over squares across the board.

 But there is a cost. Your life is constantly under observation, and you cannot move without creating a stir. It must be like being a passed pawn and, maybe, even worse.

Why, you can't even breathe without catching the attention of the opponent. A simple move, like stepping to an adjacent square, draws the immediate attention of the opponent.

Yes, I would be more powerful, but is the cost worth it?

And there is another problem: where does one go once one's dream is fulfilled?

Maybe, after the joy of victory, there is nothing, just emptiness, alone in the middle of the crowd craving for attention.

And being watched constantly being watched by everyone. No privacy and no companionship.

The companionship of fellow pawns will be gone forever; you no longer belong. You have become different; promotion has changed you forever.

Is this what I want? Once the decision is made, there is no going back.

Maybe I should stay a pawn?

 

 

 

 

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Bill Lombardy and Bobby Fischer Poem

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I have decided to start a series of blogs in the new year. As I thought about it, many ideas presented themselves. I may pursue them later, but as it is Christmas time, I thought I would start with a series of blogs honoring three people who have deeply and profoundly affected my attitude toward chess and life. The first blog, today’s blog, will set the background. 

Toward the end of his life, William  Lombardy visited the Mechanics Institute in San Francisco, California. I remember when he came in and sat next to me on the first day of the Imre Koenig event. This was a special two-day round-robin event where invited grandmasters competed against each other. If I remember correctly, there were only four players, Daniel Naroditsky and Sam Shankland among them.

I did not recognize the stranger who sat next to me, but John Donaldson, the MI chess director, did. He greeted him and brought out an old picture of a chess event with Lombardy sitting in the front row. Handing the picture to Lombardy, he asked Lombardy if he remembered. Lombardy smiled. Then John invited him to join us the following day for a special grandmaster luncheon.

After the luncheon, while I was cleaning up, Lombardy and I talked. I asked him what I could do to improve in chess. I told him I studied games by analyzing them, but It was a very slow and time-consuming process. He suggested that I spend 10 minutes a day going quickly through as many games as possible. “That won’t work,” I responded. So he tried a different track; he asked me if I stopped it every few minutes to analyze it when I listened to music. Hmm, he had a point; I do not stop the music every few minutes while listening. Lombardy and I spent an hour or two that afternoon discussing many things. We had a wonderful time.

After that event, Lombardy often visited the MI, especially on Tuesday nights when the place was buzzing with people. Tuesday is the night of the historic Tuesday Night Marathon, which often draws more than 100 players.

As participants finish, they gather in the skittles room, a special room with walls covered with pictures of famous chess players. A tall picture of Tal smoking his cigar is on one side, a photograph of Spassky giving a simultaneous exhibition at the Mechanics Institute on the other side. Over the door to the office is a framed picture of Bobby Fischer on the cover of Time magazine. Additional pictures are scattered over the walls, such as Frank Sinatra and Walter Browne playing chess, giving the room the comfortable feeling of a home rather than a club. The room is filled with solid wooden chess tables, each with its history.

On Tuesday nights, the room is full as the players of the Tuesday night marathon stream in. “What would you have done if I played this?’’ “Why did you play this move?” “What were you thinking here?” “You nearly got me there.”  “Why didn’t you play this move?”

These questions, asked quietly at various tables as players analyze their games at each table, give the room a quiet buzz of fellowship and camaraderie. Lombardy and I were sitting at one of the tables across from each other. He had been talking to one of his friends, who just had left. So I set down across from him, handing him a poem I wrote about Bobby Fischer. I always wondered if my portrayal of Bobby Fischer was accurate, and here I had someone who knew him well. I was not going to let this opportunity slip by.

At first, he was reluctant to read it, but he agreed. As he started reading the poem, I heard him comment, “I like this….” “The wording here needs to be changed…” etc. When he had finished, I looked eagerly at him. “Did I capture Bobby Fischer?” He nodded; there was a pause, and then I heard him quietly say, “It could have been me.”